Inheritance
12.
Our Feorian escort is not a gregarious fellow. He sits hunched at the guidance system of the foremost hover-car, the makeshift engine of this cargo-tram, keeping his sunken eyes trained steadily upon the ice-crusted plains, cautiously veering in long arcs around any stony protuberances that thrust up from the frozen soil. Slabs of broken granite are embedded helter-skelter along the curves and dips of the land, evidence of some ancient glacial erosion.
The train is neither heated nor enclosed, but our skinny, bent-backed driver was kind enough to provide us with hand-woven blankets, a rare artifact in this day and age. I sit behind the engineer's seat, watching the bleak swells of land rise and fall like the waves of some forlorn sea. Kenobi and his Padawan rest against the opposite side of the rattling cab, the frigid wind whipping at their hair, raking bright spots of pink across fair cheeks. Skywalker is huddled close against his master's side, practically under his wing like the famous sculpture of the dove and its hatchling in the Alderaanian Peace Garden.
In truth, the pair of them remind me more of that late Scozzi period painting – "The Orphans," I believe it's titled. It's displayed prominently at the Coruscant Intergalactic Museum of Art in the classicist wing. You would think that these two boys were the original models. A fanciful person might describe the scene as picturesque. But I am not a fanciful person. Were I not Jedi, I would say the Force made a mistake; Qui-Gon should have survived to this day and well beyond, the old scoundrel.
Kenobi's eyes meet mine briefly, and the barely perceptible frown-line between his brows amply conveys his ironic perceptiveness. Apparently my thoughts were not well shielded; and apparently, he finds my pity slightly irksome. As he should; a Jedi is never truly bereaved, while he has the Force, and the Force cleaves to Kenobi as it does to few others. You could strip this man of everything, and yet he would not be alone. Yoda sees it – I'm convinced of that. Underestimate him, perhaps you do. I lean back, crossing my arms, and direct my gaze forward, past our hunched driver's form, to the rolling tundra beyond. In the distance, the irregular geometry of a flat village can be spied, peeking between two dull swells in the land.
"This jabuur-weki," I address him. "A native predator?" Or perhaps a band of roaming outlaws or thieves? – Outer Gola is far from the reach of Galactic Law, in all but name. This may be part of the Republic, but it's a forgotten part.
The Feorian turns mournful eyes upon me, allowing his gaze to stray dangerously from the road ahead. "The jabuur-weki," he declares solemnly, in his rasping voice, "Hast thou not heard of it, lord Jedi?"
"Not lord," I correct him. "And no, we've not heard of it."
Kenobi waves a hand, tumbling a heavy stone out of our path at the last moment. The train hurtles onward, its guide still studying me intently. The Force smoothes again. "Beware the jabuur-weki," the Feorian intones, theatrically. "It comes for those who hath violated the Old Ways." His head wobbles atop his scrawny neck as he finally returns his attention to our distant goal. "It has punished many, of late. A spirit, it is, a guardian of our people."
The Skywalker boy's face is twisted into a skeptical grimace, but he holds his tongue. This may be due to the restraining hand placed on his knee. Kenobi merely flicks his own gaze in my direction, once, and then asks the obvious question.
"Has anyone seen this apparition?"
But our new acquaintance scoffs. "Seen it? Thou knowest nothing, truly. Reveal itself only to those it comes to claim, the jabuur-weki does. Do not wish to see it," he advises, with a shudder. "Many have seen it of late, and the jabuur-weki is that which hath taken their souls and left their bodies to linger on like empty gourds."
"Naturally," Kenobi concludes with a droll lift of the brows.
"Master," his Padawan interrupts, in a low whisper.
"Later, Anakin."
And by some miracle of the Force, the boy remains silent.
"Perhaps we can help," I offer. We are duty bound to render assistance where it is needed.
But my suggestion is met with stony disapprobation. "The jabuur-weki is an avenging spirit," the Feorian mumbles. "We do not wish to rebel against its judgment. Your help is not needed, lord Jedis."
I see. Now Skywalker's mouth is hanging open in disbelief. I fix him with a sober look and he seems to remember his place, clamping his jaw shut and looking up at Kenobi again, blue eyes glittering with a hundred unasked questions.
I know how you feel, son. I have a few of those, myself. But it is clear that this ignorant if well-intentioned fellow is not the one who will answer them. We must have patience, and learn more.
Eventually, the clattering hover-train bumps and jostles to an inelegant halt on the outskirts of the village, which upon closer inspection proves to be no more than an orderly cluster of long-houses, constructed of hardened earth and roofed in scrap material from some industrial smelting-house. There are no roads, and no vehicles in sight beyond this one ersatz passenger line. Out of low-slung doorways emerge Feorians, in twos and threes, and then in clusters of a half-dozen, all of them mournful and gangly, and staring at us with large, unblinking eyes. There are hardly any children among them, and many elderly. Among them is an ornament-bedecked elder, hoary and hobbling on aging joints. He leans heavily on a carved staff of office, and is attended by a bevy of others, their slanting shoulders draped in rudely-embroidered stoles, a sign of rank or authority. The women, I notice, remain sheltered within the gloom of the houses. I can feel their regard settle with juridical interest upon our 'sabers and the sweep of our dark cloaks as we exchange bows with the leaders.
"Welcome," the chieftain greets us, with a ceremonial gesture. "Please – we are honored to host you, lord Jedis. But daylight dwindles. Beneath a roof, should we be."
And so we proceed, across the hard-packed, still-frozen earth of the village square, into one of the squalid shelters that ring it, where we will spend our first night among these lost people, this mysterious and exiled race. Kenobi enters the darkened hut first, followed closely by Skywalker.
I take one last look at the village, the long dusking shadows crawling over the trampled dirt. And I bring up the rear, already aware that this will be no simple ambassadorial visit.
Because the Force here is acutely disturbed.
